Stains of Blood and Ash
Then Job arose, and rent his mantle, and shaved his head, and fell down on the ground, and worshipped, And said, Naked came I out of my mothers womb and naked shall I return thither: the Lord gave and the Lord hath taken away; blessed be the name of the Lord.
Job 1: 20-21
Edwards stallion danced before the army. His standard bearers upon their still horses held their flags, simple crosses on white fields, proudly above their heads.
Nervous peasants filled the ranks as soldiers behind their King. Knights and nobles were interspersed amongst the ranks and were swollen with pride, but the mass was the poor, the dirty, the destitute. These men had little to defend, but for England they would die. Given the choice between Edward and whatever Kahn wished to conquer them these ragged masses would die for Edward.
The Mongols had finally reached England. It had been a long wait for the Britons as the horde raged cruelly through France, Castile, Leon, the Muslim Caliphates, Venice, Rome, and Sicily, slaughtering all who would oppose, enslaving those too afraid. The ships had landed, though, and as though struck by the hand of God Himself Exeter, Bath, Bristol, and Winchester had disappeared beneath smoky shrouds.
A cool mist had settled over the army as London peered from behind them; stricken with the same undignified terror that had been the mark of all cities as the armies of the Kahn stared into their souls, never finding nobler than fear.
The dread was here also, outside the city. It veiled the army as Edward shouted noble, stirring words and the men held their weapons high. In the mud spotted armor of the nobles and in the filthy faces of the lowborn, likewise it could be found. The horses couldnt escape it; the King himself demonstrated it through his boldness.
It would be false to claim that Christopher was exempt, he too shuddered. The cross hung limply below his neck. He wore nothing more than the robes of the monastery. His sword was heavy in his hand and the mist converged greedily on it and it dripped tears into the ground. Christopher prayed for forgiveness, for mercy, for hope for England. He held his cross.
Theres no point, my friend, God has left us, another soldier whispered to him.
Christopher looked up with gentle reproach, whispering in return, God has willed this upon us; I trust he has good purpose.
God has abandoned us, the other soldier shook his head, left us to our graves.
If God should call me home, I wont regret it.
The other soldier shook his head, Foolish monk.
King Edward finished his speech; his words fading feebly in the distance. Some men cheered, most were too entranced by fate. The heavy soldiers of England took up their weapons and marched. The Mongols had come.
-
Arrows slid through the mist, embedding themselves into flesh. The army of England never stopped marching, dead fell from its ranks and lay abandoned as the English soldiers strode inexoriably onwards.
A few ragged bowmen forced themselves to the front of the lines, firing almost idly at the Mongols. No sound could be heard but the exchange between the rapid Mongol weapons and their faint English counterparts.
The Englishmen had no words left. Europe had cried lamentation and fury for too long, the Britons would be calm. The swords were lifted behind rusted shields, arrows were sometimes swatted away but with dire frequency punctured shields and left the bearer bleeding and forgotten.
Christopher stared across the field, through the cool mist. His boots sloshed through the mud, he gripped his sword and glanced to heaven as he marched. Men around him panicked as the Mongol archers found them, their bodies twitching painfully as the army marched on. Christopher looked upwards and marched onwards.
No torches were lit on either side, though the sun began its decline in the West and the armies could do little more than to listen to the faint whispers of the arrows, armor, and horses.
A shout burst forth out of the eerie battle. They had found the Mongol line, and every man with a sword rushed forwards, surged towards their foe, ignoring the arrows that dispatched their comrades.
Swords slashed against the leather armor of the Mongols to great effect. Arrows rammed themselves deep into armor and flesh, burying themselves into the English, breaking as the Knights and Serfs collapsed.
The louder valkyries had arrived, every moment of the blood and anguish was woven with the screams of the dying and the roars of the survivors. Horses neighed, struggling desperately for escape, swords slashed deeply into their flesh as arrows stung their sides.
The brown monkish robes swirled about the battle. Christopher lifted his sword and swung it as he could see in the confused battle. The British line had broken through the Mongol, and one would do well not to slay his comrades as they dashed confusedly through the battle. Christopher lifted his sword as a horse rose behind him. He turned and swung it, impaling the beast as its Mongol rider tumbled to the ground.
The horse landed atop him, ending his battle as he subsided to the deep murk of the field.
-
Christopher woke suddenly, panicked. The horse was there, lying across his legs. His sword still buried into its chest. Mud caked his hair and engulfed his back; a hoof lay silent beside his face.
Horseflesh, even when so lightly armored as the Mongols, was a heavy burden. Christopher pushed and tugged himself out from under, sliding himself through the mud and filfth of Britain.
A dark cloud filled the sky overhead, thundering and threatening. Christopher, his monkish robes hanging slashed and tattered from his shoulders, stared up at it.
The fury of God?
He fell to the ground weeping, begging and crying softly to the Earth to tell him why.
Large raindrops soaked his mud-tangled hair. They soaked into the bloodstained ground, washing the gore away and flowing down the hills. Stains still marked the rocks, defiant to the mere cleansing rain. An acrid smoke suddenly filled his nostrils and he turned towards its source, behind him.
London was aflame.
Lightning flashed in the distance.
The fury of God?
Dead Englishmen lay in a multitude around him, among fewer Mongols.
Christopher lifted his fist to heaven, What have we done? Where is thy mercy?
His voice broke and he fell again into the mud, mumbling as his tears joined the raindrops on the muddy soil, where is thy mercy?
-
The smoke of London filled the skies as angels' tears fell gracefully to the ground. London was suddenly joined to the multitude of cities that had suffered the same treatment, Paris, Rome, distant Delhi, Alexandria, Seville, Mecca, Constantinople, all had fallen to the Mongols, all had been burned. King and serf alike spilled their blood to no avail as the Mongols raged invincibly westward. There were survivors, if one could call the decimated Marinid Moors or the bleeding Greeks of Crete such, but both owed their survival to but the single fact that the Mongols had yet to attend to them.
It is common in such times to question ones faith, and across Europe the smokes of the cities had suffocated prayer. God answered not as the Europeans saw fit and so he was abandoned, some returned to the Pagan gods, some tried to follow the assorted Mongol faiths, all were killed as quickly as those who kept Christ in their hearts.
The savages waged no war against Christ, and perhaps this was the most devastating blow of all. Though cathedrals burned as brightly as any other building, the church, the men and the women had not been burned by Mongol fires, but were destroyed from within. The faith of Europe had not been extinguished, but abandoned.
A hand twitched in the mud next to Christopher.
It caused him a small degree of alarm and he quickly scrambled up to watch it, it was dark, coated in mud. He took a hold of it and tugged, pulling until the entire mud caked body was freed.
It was a Mongol; his features were plainly not English. His left leg was bent at an unnatural angle and his own blood stained his leather armor.
He looked up, dazed and broken, to the man that had tugged him out of the mud.
Rest, Christopher promised him, the battle is over.
The eyes rolled up and he fell back to lay there, a pulse in his veins.
My Lord, do what you will with this.
The fires of London glowed behind the warrior and the monk, the smoke escorting a final hopeful prayer to heaven.
-
Parlez vous Francais? the Mongol butchered the language, but it was recognizable.
Christopher smiled. His grandparents had fled from the Mongol horde as it approached France. He had learned to speak French before English, Oui.
Christopher had bound the broken leg and, tiredly explaining himself, began to check for broken ribs.
They crouched there in the mud, Christopher sometimes peering hopelessly at the ashes that coated the far side of the Thames. A few words were exchanged in French, but Christopher discovered little other than that the man he had apparently captured was Ogadi, named after the Kahn who had begun the expansion of their empire into Europe. He had served in France, putting down the sporadic rebellions, and there had learned to speak and read the native language. He was born a Buddhist, and while he supported Christs bringing of, as he put it, the ten perfections to the people of the west, he had never reconciled himself with Christianity.
Christopher drew a cross in the sand, Croix.
The warrior nodded, he had apparently seen it all before, Oui.
Can you ever really live up to the perfection that Nirvana asks of you?
The Buddhist paused for a moment and then nodded, Oui.
And what of the imperfections of the past?
He shrugged, What of them?
Doesnt eternity remember them?
He nodded slowly, unsure, Perhaps.
Then is there any redemption for you?
But what is a man if his past is wiped clean? Does he not forfeit his self if he surrenders his transgression?
I am shaped by my past, I am the product of it, but my past is not an integral part of my person.
But that is what Buddhists say; our actions in this life affect our manifestation in the next. We too are the product of our past.
Yes, but if it is still you in the next life are you not accountable for your acts in the previous lives? Where does forgiveness come from?
You must behave well in the next.
But you will always carry your previous actions; you have no one to forgive you, to save you.
We need no one; our acts shall take us to Nirvana.
Can you name one man that you can feel is worthy of it, who has earned his way?
Buddha, Ogadi replied quickly, without thought.
Wasnt Buddha a prince in his youth and did he not at that time indulge himself?
The Mongol shrugged uncomfortably, I suppose, but why should a few years of decadence disqualify one for Nirvana?
How can one atone for them? Can a year of reflection and good works redeem one from a rape or murder? You can change your future, but doesnt the past yet stain you?
You speak cleverly my friend, but how can Jesus take away the stains?
Christopher smiled; pulling out from his robes a well-worn book that had been with him constantly for twenty years.
Twenty years ago, as an arrogant young monk, Christopher had decided, against all standing church law, to translate the Bible into English and French. He had bound it himself in a loose leather cover when it was finished, twelve years later, and kept it always nearby, never trusting any hiding place. It was heresy to possess, for reading the Bible might lead the uneducated to attempt their own theology, something they were sorely inadequate for. Christ was best, it had been told to Christopher, explained ex cathedra, and was too much to burden these with.
Christopher now displayed the Bible to the Mongol. It had three columns of text, the original, the French and the English, neatly divided and inscribed by his delicate handwriting; he took the Mongol to the back, to the Testaments.
-
They had left the dead and rotting battlefield to the scavengers days before, moving to a stand of trees that had miraculously survived the flames that had ravaged the other side of the Thames. London's ashes had begun to sift away, forgotten so easily by the wind and yet leaving in their place an unmistakable stain.
Christopher fetched the occasional fruits and meats, built fires, as Ogadi read the Bible that Christopher had given him with fervor, looking up to the heavens on occasion and asking questions about how God could be both universal and personal, how he was triune, how he created such a world in six days. Christopher answered each question, giving all that he had to the Mongol invader, giving freely the only gift he could give.
Unspoken was the blood and ash that stained the Mongol's hands, the cinders from a thousand pillages that burned yet in his heart, torturing him with every waking hour. Unspoken were the thousands of transgressions that had never found absolution. These were the burdens that pressed him quietly on.
A week after he had been pulled from the mud Ogadi asked to be baptized. Christopher smiled and put the invader upon his shoulders and took him to the Thames, where Ogadi the Mongol was baptized.
